a ticking time-bomb in a timeless place
by symphonies of you
Summary: "It's a beautiful friendship, a friendship unshared by most, a friendship stemmed from their early years since they were children jumping in mud puddles and picking cherries from the cherry tree in her mother's garden." -dominiquelysander, one-shot.


Hey, it's me again. And I'm back with a little Dominique/Lysander fic. This is for the Prompts, oh, Prompts thread in the Next-Gen Fanatics Forum. Go check it out!

As usual, I don't own anything you recognize.

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**MAIN PROMPT**: fingertips

**ADDITIONAL PROMPTS**: dust, lullaby & field

**PAIRING**: dominiquelysander

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**WORDS**: 1,769

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please stay, please stay right beside me with every single step i take

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She stands alone in the middle of a field of yellow wildflowers somewhere in Scotland.

She doesn't know her exact location, nor does she know the date and time.

She doesn't have her wand or any possessions, so yes, she feels completely and utterly (scared) alone.

Thing is, Dominique Gabriele Weasley tends to be a reckless ball of spitfire, a ticking time-bomb with a pounding silence between each deadly tick. She just _does _things without thinking and she can't really stop herself sometimes. With her constantly hurling herself into sticky situations, there's only one person who ever comes to save or stop her from destroying herself completely. Without him, she would have burned up like one of those distant, blinking stars in the sky that she never bothered to learn the names of.

And knowing her, she probably would have set off every star in her vicinity and caused them to implode as well in her wake.

(Where is he?)

She looks down at her hands to see them trembling ever so slightly. Pondering the absurd idea of a life without Lysander, she can already feel her body start to break down and cease working. She's such a nervous wreck without him and _dammit, where is he? _

She kind of secretly thinks of Lysander Scamander as her saviour. As cliché as it may sound, it's true because he's her rock, an unbending anchor that keeps her chained down to this earth. She's a girl who plays with fire and starts a wildfire, rescinding everything in her way, and he's a boy who is immune to her fire, calming her wildfire down to nothing but a few sparks and piles of ash. Her arms are covered in burns and scrapes and bruises because she's a friend to danger and madness, and he's always there to rescue her and heal her scars. And the process starts all over again, a never-ending cycle, but that's okay because it's their thing, their routine. And they both can't imagine their life without this destructive cycle built on promises, promises to never leave each other.

She's the brash Gryffindor, and he's the sensible Ravenclaw.

And she also kind of secretly thinks that she may or may not possibly be in love with him.

She may or may not possibly be in love with him because he's the only person she cares about in this grey, miserable place called Earth. And she loves him more than anything or anyone else in her stupid, screwed-up life.

Hearing a rumbling noise behind her, she turns around to see an old, beat-up pickup truck making its way down the road. As she runs towards the gravel-paved road, she nearly cries with relief when she sees that it's her blonde-haired, grey-eyed best friend in the driver's seat.

(But, you know, Dominique Gabriele Weasley doesn't cry.)

She can't help the biggest grin she's ever worn when he notices her standing in the field, causing him to stop driving and park his truck at the side of the road. She runs up to him and flings her arms around his neck, and he reciprocates her hug, burrowing his face into her shoulder.

It's the best hug of all time, and she feels completely safe in his arms.

"Damn, you're really good at choosing places to run away to," he mumbles into her shoulder, sending a shiver down her spine.

Godric, she missed the lullaby of his soft voice.

(She swears she can listen to it for hours at a time and never get tired of it.)

"Where am I this time?" she asks, ending the hug as she separates her limbs from his.

"Cawdor, Scotland. Not too far from that Cawdor Castle that my mum always says is infested with Nargles," he replies dutifully.

She smiles at the mention of his mum. Luna's one of the most eccentric people she has ever had the opportunity to encounter, and she's glad to say that Luna Scamander is one of the few people she trusts. His mum has the most peculiar thoughts and the most inspiring of perceptions, and she has a way of comforting Dominique, a way that Lysander definitely inherited from his mother. Sometimes, she wishes that Luna was her mum, too. But then again, it'd be awkward fancying Lysander if she were his sister.

She sighs. "I'm just glad that you found me."

"Don't I always?"

…

"So, how did you get this truck?"

They're back on the road with Lysander driving, of course, since he got his Muggle driver's license a week ago. She always found his need to be able to drive a car puzzling, but she reckons that it's probably for her sake, as she's always running off to Merlin-knows-where. She stares out of the window in the passenger seat at the feathered swirls of dark orange and barely-there pink blooming into the fading blue skies overhead. She wonders if she'll ever be able to take control of her life, if Lysander will have to keep finding her in the most random and deserted places.

(If Lysander will ever stop coming after her.)

"Nicked it off someone I saw on the road," he responds offhandedly.

She raises an eyebrow at his nonchalance, and his shoulders droop.

"Okay, so maybe I Confunded a Muggle into thinking that his truck was mine. But it was for your sake, so please don't be mad at me?" he admits, never once taking his eyes off the road.

"Are you bloody serious?" she stares at him.

He _knows _the fact that she hates it when Muggles are treated as ignorant, sub-human beings.

They stop at a traffic light flashing red.

"Yes?" he says helplessly, softening her anger with the _annoying _puppy face he always pulls on her whenever she's mad at him.

With an exasperated sigh, she gives in. "I forgive you, Lysander Scamander."

And he rewards her forgiveness with a cute little crooked smile that he reserves only for her, a smile that is enough to turn time into dust and nonexistence.

…

She makes him return the truck to the random guy who he nicked it off of with promises of convincing his father to purchase Lysander a car of his own. They continue aimlessly strolling down the streets of London, looking around at all the city lights and glaring traffic lights and rush of honking cars. They talk about nothing in particular, laughing at inside jokes and little quirks and jabs that they make at each other. It's a beautiful friendship, a friendship unshared by most, a friendship stemmed from their early years since they were children jumping in mud puddles and picking cherries from the cherry tree in her mother's garden.

Now they're seventeen, and it's their last summer of being children, being unexposed to being adults with jobs and responsibilities and worries.

The summer before their last year of Hogwarts.

Suddenly, they're not speaking. They're standing in the middle of the pavement without a single word being uttered from their lips. She's at a loss for verbal words, grasping at an intangible rush of nonsensical words to formulate a coherent sentence. He's looking at her, and she's looking at him. It's an exquisite sort of silence that holds so many unspoken words being communicated through their eye conversations. It's times like these that they talk about anything and nothing and everything in between by just looking at each other. They have a rare sort of magic in their friendship, a magic only attainable by knowing each other inside and out for decades, millenniums, _eons_.

She does something that they haven't done since they were children. She grabs his right hand and presses it to her left, measuring how big his hand is compared to hers. Awed by the stretch of his fingertips beyond hers, she inwardly gasps as it hits her—it hits her that they've known each other since _literally _forever and his hand is _so _much bigger than it used to be.

(Hers, too.)

She looks up at him to see a soft look in his eyes, a soft look that may or may not turn her legs into jelly or some other wobbly substance comparable to the state of her legs. And Dominique can't help the rush of affection that shoots its way through her bloodstream and veins into her heart. It hits her that this excess amount of affection isn't only germinated from their life-long friendship—it's from the budding love that she holds for him, a budding love that she has only discerned as _love _just now. It's a bit terrifying, but she knows that everything will be alright in the end because they're invincible together. Nothing can touch them because she does the destroying and he does the fixing, and nothing can disrupt that ritual.

"I'm really glad that we're friends," she whispers.

"Me too," he agrees.

"No but really, you make me feel like I'm alright, and I'm more than just a ticking time-bomb. You make me feel like I'm more than what everyone thinks whenever they look at me, and I'm glad that I have you to stop me from doing too many drastic things," she elaborates, conveying her genuineness through the crack in her voice.

He draws her into a hug, enveloping her with his arms and establishing an atmosphere that is the very definition of the word "home."

Lysander Scamander is her home.

"That's what I'm here for," he affirms.

Her life is a mess of unassembled wrongs and rights, but she's happy where she is. She wouldn't trade Lysander for anything else in the world because he's all that she needs. And she'll wait as long as she needs for him to realise that he loves her too because all boys are dunderheads when it comes to something as perplexing as love.

Ending the hug, she tells him, "You're my favourite person in this entire world."

He chuckles. "I know."

She punches his arm hard. "Jerk. This is the moment you're supposed to say, 'You're mine, too'."

"You're mine, too, Dom."

She beams up at him and presses her lips to his right cheek. And she doesn't notice the red blush creeping into his cheeks and the goofy grin upon his lips as she walks away in the direction of their favourite diner.

Their love story is one waiting to unfold and be told with a happy ending.

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how many times have you given me strength to just keep breathing?

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A/N: How was it? Please let me know in a review! I'd really like to know your opinion because I'm not very comfortable with writing fluffy stuff.

Please don't favourite without reviewing! =)

-nic.


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